Repaying The Debt Of Love With Ash And Shards

Ten years after yanking the elusive golden boy off his pedestal, I, Cassidy “Cass” Jones, finally stopped pretending for Preston Brandon. I redecorated the apartment in the Vegas-flashy, ‘new money’ style I actually liked. I meticulously calculated and emailed him the household expenses, demanding we split them. I even got into a screaming match with a neighbor, the kind of public brawl that had the cops knocking on the door. When Preston walked in, I was standing in the hallway, hands on my hips, shouting loud enough for the whole floor to hear. “Mrs. Davison, my contractors work nine to five. Perfectly legal. Your kid plays the cello like he’s sawing a tree down at ten o’clock every night. Are you really calling the police on yourself for a noise complaint?” Mrs. Davison’s face went purple with fury. “You—you’re being ridiculous!” I didn’t budge. “I’m being factual!” Preston strode forward, his brow severely furrowed, a quiet disapproval radiating off him. “Cass, that’s enough. They’re neighbors. You need to play nice and apologize.” I finally raised my eyes to look at him.

1 He was wearing a simple white button-down and black slacks, yet he still exuded that innate, aloof refinement—the kind money and art had steeped into him—making him look utterly out of place amidst the chaos. Even Mrs. Davison, moments ago hysterical, flushed and began waving her hands. “Never mind, never mind. It’s a minor thing, apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Brandon.” But I turned my hostility on him, my voice sharp. “I’m entirely in the right. If you can’t handle it, you can always go back and live at the Estate.” Preston stiffened. He always hated my vulgar taste, my penny-pinching habits, and my aggressive, market-raised spirit. To please him, I had spent years suppressing my nature, trying to be the muted, quiet, uncontentious wife he seemed to want. This recent behavior was a complete reversal. Since Mrs. Davison backed down, the impromptu mediation was over. I was already disinterested, turning to walk into the apartment, when he called me back. “What is this temper tantrum really about?” Preston stared at me, searching my face for an answer. “If this is about Sienna staying at the Estate, I can explain. She just got back into the country, and I simply—” “What does that have to do with me?” I cut him off, genuinely confused. “That’s your family property. You can let anyone you want stay there.” His confusion deepened. “But you were the one who helped me buy the Estate back. If it’s not that, then what is it?” I sighed. “I’m not throwing a tantrum. This is just who I am, Preston. You know that.” Before he could speak again, I reached up and straightened his collar. “Never mind all that. Today is the ten-year anniversary of my father’s death. Get cleaned up. We’re going to the cemetery.” We went downstairs, where two town cars were waiting. Preston hesitated for a moment, then, to my surprise, got into the same car as me. I raised an eyebrow; he usually refused to be close to me because he couldn’t stand the faint scent of fish that always clung to my clothes. But I didn’t care about the small details anymore. I told the driver to start and turned my gaze to the city rushing by. If it hadn’t been for the Brandon family’s spectacular bankruptcy a decade ago, Preston and I would have remained galaxies apart. His father had been a shipping magnate. His mother, a socialite. Preston himself had studied under master artists since childhood, holding his first gallery exhibition at fifteen. He was the Brandon golden boy, the celestial being everyone in the City envied. My father was just their sous chef. My family ran a fish stall in the gritty Fulton Market Area to make ends meet. Everyone said Preston was the moon, and I was the dirt beneath their feet. That no amount of polish could ever make me worthy. Then their sky fell. His father’s investments tanked. Debt collectors swarmed the mansion, and his parents took their own lives. I was sixteen. That morning, my father had simply said, “The Brandon family is in trouble. I need to go see about them.” I waited all day. What returned was my father, bleeding and barely conscious, and a frantic, panicked Preston. “Cass, get the Young Master out of here…” My father choked out the words, then died. I looked down at Preston, who was kneeling beside my father’s body. The Brandon golden boy, the one I’d been secretly crushing on for years, looked like a drenched, beautiful stray. My heart hammered in my chest. I knew I shouldn’t, but I grabbed his hand and ran with him into the rainy night. I took him back to my tiny railroad apartment. He took one sniff of the fish smell and threw up. While I cleaned it up, I remember thinking, A prince’s stomach is so delicate. But I was willing to sacrifice everything for him. To support this precious young man, I got up at four a.m. to buy fish at the wholesale market, opened my stall at seven, worked a waitressing gig in the afternoon, and strung beads for jewelry late into the night. The first money I earned was always for him: canvas, oil paint, and the precise blend of Blue Mountain coffee he preferred. Once, he frowned and said, “The color in this paint isn’t pure enough.” I quietly asked the art supply store owner, who explained, “The pure pigments have to be specially ordered. A set is three thousand dollars.” I bit the bullet and took on three overnight beading jobs to save the money. When I presented the box of paint to him, he only said, “Thank you.” His tone was polite, distant, and formal. I was so happy I couldn’t sleep that night. Three years later, my seafood restaurant opened. I drank some wine that night, and the courage hit me. I took his hand and blurted out, “Preston, I’m crazy about you. So, so crazy.” Preston was silent for a long time. Outside, the neon lights of the City never dimmed. Inside, my heart was a wild thing. I watched his handsome profile and told myself that if he said no, I would understand. He was the moon; I was the mud. We were never meant to be. But Preston said, “Okay.” I laughed, and then I cried. I knew he was accepting out of debt—to repay the favor. I knew I was greedy; I had the man, but now I wanted his heart. But a lifetime is a long time. I was sure I would get my way eventually. Until Sienna Reed came back. She was his cherished childhood sweetheart, his former painting apprentice, and the girl he was once destined to marry. “Is all this change because of Sienna? She and I are truly just old acquaintances…” Preston had been holding it in all the way, and the question finally broke through, interrupting my memories. “Yes and no,” I said, shrugging indifferently. “After we finish honoring my father, I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on.” Preston had to settle for that, stuffing his anxiety back down. The car was only two blocks from the Northside Cemetery when his phone rang abruptly. He answered, and the sound of Sienna’s delicate, soft voice spilled from the line. “Preston, a pipe burst at the Estate, and there’s water everywhere! I’m so scared… can you please come over?” I acted as if I hadn’t heard, staring out the window, entirely unconcerned. Preston glanced at me, his frown deepening. “Sienna, I’m not free right now. Just turn off the main water valve. I’ll call the building management…” “I don’t know where the valve is!” Sienna sobbed, cutting him off. “Preston, are you still mad at me? My parents forced me to leave a decade ago, and there hasn’t been a day I haven’t regretted it. I’m sorry, but please don’t abandon me…” The air in the car solidified for a few agonizing seconds. The sound of weeping and gushing water over the phone was sharp in Preston’s ear. He squeezed his phone, took a deep breath, and turned to me. “Something happened at the Estate. Sienna was always pampered; she can’t handle this alone.” “Cass, I…” I had already anticipated his choice. I didn’t have the patience to listen to his elaborate excuses. I signaled the driver to pull over and unlocked Preston’s door. My tone was sincere, a simple nudge. “Just go. Don’t keep her waiting.” 2 Before stepping out of the car, Preston made a solemn promise: “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Wait for me.” I didn’t answer. Once his tall, elegant back had vanished into the stream of passersby, I told the driver to keep going. I didn’t doubt Preston intended to keep his word; I just knew Sienna Reed would ensure he couldn’t. When the Brandon family went bankrupt, all their friends scattered, and Sienna and her parents emigrated. Last month, she finally returned and made a beeline for Preston. I happened to be home. I opened the door to find Sienna standing there in a designer suit, adorned with perfect pearls—her entire look screaming ‘unapproachable wealth.’ I had to wonder who this elegant stranger was. Sienna bypassed me and looked into the apartment, her delicate eyebrows drawing together in a look of profound pity. “Preston’s been living here all these years? He’s been so wronged.” I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Two thousand square feet of prime City real estate, with panoramic skyline views, was “wronged”? When Preston emerged from his studio, Sienna immediately rushed forward and embraced him with an easy, intimate familiarity. “Preston, I missed you so much. It’s been too long.” I coughed twice. Sienna finally seemed to notice my presence, turning to flash a polite, practiced smile. “You must be Cass. Thank you for taking care of Preston all this time.” Her tone was the classic, patronizing delivery of a true hostess thanking the maid. I pulled my lips into a thin line. “My pleasure.” Sienna exchanged numbers with me, then took Preston’s arm, ready to leave for dinner. Before stepping out, she gave me an apologetic glance. “Cass, are you sure you don’t want to join? Though we’ll probably be talking about things you wouldn’t understand…” Before I could reply, Preston nodded slightly, his voice flat. “Cass, stay home. I’ll see you later.” I waited up until midnight that night. Then, I received Sienna’s first text. «Cass, Preston is helping me set up the gallery, so he won’t be home for a few days. Just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t worry.» Three days later, the second one arrived. «Preston gifted me several of his paintings to be the cornerstones of the gallery. I hope you don’t mind.» A week ago, the third. «I just found the sketchpad he kept from childhood. He drew me in it all the time. I heard he’s never painted a single thing for you? Is that true?» I never replied to any of them. The car reached the cemetery. I walked up the hill alone, set out the offerings, lit the incense, and had just finished my third bow when my phone buzzed. It was Sienna again. «Preston soaked his shirt fixing the pipes, so he can’t make it to the memorial. I know today is special, and I’m genuinely sorry, but please stop using gratitude to tie Preston down.» «Even though Preston is honorable, your backgrounds are too far apart, and you don’t understand his artistic vision. Letting him go now will be better for both of you.» The usual polite, veiled sneering was gone, replaced by a raw, brutal honesty. I read every word, then let out a cynical, short laugh. She was right. I truly didn’t understand Preston’s art. Every time I was asked to critique his work, all I could squeeze out was some hollow platitude like, “The colors are so pretty,” or “It looks exactly like the ocean.” Preston would simply nod, uninterested, and never asked for my opinion again. I even tried to suck up to him once, offering a massive sum to buy one of his skyline paintings to hang in my restaurant lobby. Preston had looked up at me, his eyes as cold and distant as if I were a stranger. “Cass,” he’d said, “don’t cheapen my art with money.” I was mortified, unable to speak, and never raised the subject again. Yet, the moment Sienna needed a gallery, Preston personally packed up most of his recent work and sent it over to boost her standing. And the sketchpad. Preston had treasured that thing. When he wanted to retrieve it from the abandoned Brandon Estate, he was so distraught I had to go in his stead. I twisted my ankle jumping out a window, got caught, and took a few solid hits to the head. Blood ran into my eyes, but my first instinct was to feel for the notebook in my jacket. It was safe. I hadn’t known what was inside, only that it was his treasure. It was filled with drawings of Sienna. I supposed I should thank Sienna for showing me where Preston’s heart truly lay. Otherwise, I would have continued to bury my head in the sand, grinding my way through a strained marriage. After all, Preston would never be the one to ask for a divorce. I touched the cold stone of the headstone and recalled the first time he visited this grave. He had knelt, his back ramrod straight, and his voice was earnest and serious. “Sir, I promise to spend my entire life repaying you and Cass for your kindness. I will always be with her.” He had meant it. A life for a life. He kept his promise. But I never wanted his gratitude. I only ever wanted his genuine love. I sighed, then typed my first-ever response to Sienna. «You’re right. Preston is honorable, which is how a girl like me got so lucky in the first place.» «No matter how late, he will be back today to pay his respects to the man who saved him.» I hit send, switched off my phone, and pulled the pre-signed divorce agreement from my bag, using a flat stone to hold it down against the headstone. I turned and walked back down the hill. I didn’t look back once. At nine that night, I was reviewing the restaurant’s monthly accounts when Preston’s call came in. His tone was heavy. “Cass, you didn’t wait for me, and you left a divorce agreement behind. What does this mean?”